


The Allure of the English Countryside

by stardust_made



Series: The Christmas Series [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Related, Love, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt <i>"Sherlock plays the violin for John"</i>. He does, and some big decisions are made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Allure of the English Countryside

**Author's Note:**

> For nausicaa83, who suggested this [musical piece](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BQY6A3rLRY) as the one Sherlock plays. Beta by the fantastic [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[**disastrolabe**](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/). Original entry [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/42177.html#cutid1) at my Livejournal.

  
“Everybody is leaving London,” John said behind his paper.

Sherlock squinted at his own newspaper, which was flattened on the table in front of him, right by the Bunsen burner. The letters were getting smaller and smaller these days. Was it because the papers wanted to print more of the useless drivel they called news?

John continued. “It’s like there’s a plague here and people are fleeing for the countryside.”

It wasn’t just the quality of the newspapers. Something was wrong with Sherlock’s microscope lenses, too, and they were only a year old. Lately, Sherlock had ended up with a headache every time he’d used them for anything over five minutes.

“It’s not like the prices of property have changed,” John said. “They’re still bloody ridiculous. Apparently, you can buy a shed in Devon for the money you get from the sale of a one-bedroom flat in London. Oh, wait—or was it the other way round?”

The bulbs in the sitting room definitely needed changing to higher voltage ones. The light in here, good God. They were practically living like bats! Sherlock was surprised they didn’t bump into the walls, really. Or perhaps there were just no quality bulbs these days. Ruined, like everything else in this country.

“Although if people choose to go and live there, they must be able to afford it. I can never remember if it’s a buyer’s market or a seller’s now.”

Sherlock groaned and bowed his head, then splayed his palms on the table and pushed away everything on it. Something fell with a thud, but it didn’t shatter so Sherlock didn’t move.

From John’s chair came the rustle of the paper being folded. John’s voice rang clearer.

“Can’t see the letters again? When are you going to visit an ophthalmologist?”

Sherlock groaned again and turned to John, if only to roll his eyes at him more effectively.

“Don’t start that again.”

“Fine,” John said calmly. Or was there a sinister cheery note in his voice? Sherlock looked at him, suspicious. “Will you accompany me to one, then?” John went on, raising innocent eyebrows. “ _I_ certainly need a change of prescription.”

Aha.

“Obvious, John,” Sherlock dragged, feeling quite triumphant. “Not going.”

John got up from the chair and stretched with a mild yawn, then gasped and held his shoulder. He rubbed it as he made his way to Sherlock and bent down to place his chin on top of Sherlock’s head.

“I really wish I could convince you that glasses make you look not just younger but dangerously sexy, too. The prude in me would say it’s an indecent look for your age.”

Sherlock smiled despite himself.

“I wore glasses at sixteen. I looked like an alien.” He lifted a hand warningly. “Don’t!”

He could feel John’s warm breath caressing his hair as John chuckled. “Fine, I won’t. I will, however, point out that this was over forty years ago. Your face has changed just a bit, you know.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because I don’t need glasses.”

John sighed. He moved his arms to wrap them around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Still not there yet, eh?”

Sherlock frowned and sought a change of topic.

“What were you talking about earlier?” he asked.

John’s chin tickled Sherlock’s skull as it moved with John’s words.

“There was an article about people leaving London to live in the country. And I spoke to Ellen the other day—she said she was going to move to Dorset at the end of next year. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had some relatives on her father’s side there so Ellen’s going to look them up.” John paused. “It’ll be nice for her to have family there.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock agreed. He liked Ellen; ironic, since she didn’t resemble her aunt in either the fundamentals or the visuals. She was a sensible, quiet woman who dressed decidedly in brown. At first Sherlock had thought Ellen was too sensible…too practical. But John had been right, of course. She hadn’t wanted to hear a word about evicting Mrs. Hudson’s favourite tenants. Ellen came over for tea once or twice a year, usually in the week between Christmas and New Year’s. She and John kept in touch.

John. The little heart at the big heart of their circle. No, inaccurate—There was nothing little about his John’s heart. Sherlock shuffled in John’s embrace until John released him, then lifted his face to look at John from upside down and pushed his lips forward, expectant. John’s face lit up as it moved to his and gosh, but Sherlock didn’t need glasses—not as long as he could see John so clearly, so close…

Their lips pressed softly for a quick moment, then John straightened. Sherlock turned around and regarded him properly.

“What’s on your mind?” he said.

John shook his head, but smiled.

“Funny that you won’t be listening to me, yet you’ll still know—” He stumbled and stopped. Sherlock waited for a moment then insisted. “John?”

John looked uncertain and Sherlock felt a small chill. He had thought John was just rambling about things, but John had a face that meant he might be contemplating a Conversation.

“Have I done something wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“No. No! It’s just…” John scratched his ear. “It made me wonder, you know. I mean, what Ellen said and the papers.”

Relieved, Sherlock raised his eyebrows inquisitively. John tilted his head and kept his eyes on him, obviously thinking. Sherlock waited. He’d learnt to be patient over the years. With some people. With John. Who was now having a conversation with Sherlock in his head, and that was quite unfair, because Sherlock would have liked at least to hear the lines that John was assigning him.

“John!” He prompted, using his hands for emphasis.

John bit his lip. “I suppose,” he started slowly, “you wouldn’t be happy anywhere but London. So it’s not really worth talking about it.”

Of course Sherlock wouldn’t be happy anywhere but London! John knew him so well. Sherlock’s place was in London, just like London’s place was in Sherlock’s life—everything in him that didn’t belong to John and the criminal classes, which admittedly wasn’t much, belonged to London. Sherlock had a very clear notion of—

Wait.

He looked at John who was watching him with a small, bittersweet smile that wove itself around Sherlock’s heart and tugged. Sherlock turned his head to the side, his eyes not leaving John’s.

“Do you—Is that what you—Have you been thinking about leaving London?” he asked.

“No. God, no,” John repeated emphatically. “Me, leaving? I’d never think about leaving—Or doing anything, really, that—”

“Not just _you_ , you idiot.” Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Honestly. Like either of them would ever contemplate doing anything without the other. “We. Have you been thinking about _us_ leaving London?”

John looked at the tips of his slippers and fiddled with the hem of his jumper, then produced quite an indefinable roll of his head. “I haven’t been thinking about it exactly,” he said. “More like—I don’t know. Daydreaming, I s’ppose. But not for real.” He hurried to add. “Just wishing for less noise sometimes. Or imagining the sky and fields, and, er, some sheep. That sort of thing.” There were two pinkish spots on John’s cheeks.

“Sheep?” Sherlock said.

“Hmm.”

They looked at each other in silence.

“What?” John said, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, trampling the twitch at the corner of his lips.

“Do you…have a problem with sheep?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and tried. “None,” he said. It came out as sort of a…bleat.

And then suddenly a snort burst out of him like the cork from an energetically shaken bottle of champagne. He threw his head back and shook with laughter until tears came to his eyes. Somewhere amid his mirth he could hear the sound of John’s high-pitched giggle. Always so deceitful, the appearances of John—laughing like a girl, not like the soldier he’d never stopped being.

When they finally stopped Sherlock’s jaw was hurting. He flexed his facial muscles to relieve the ache.

“Jesus,” John exclaimed, whizzing. “Warn me before you do that. You look like an alien anyway—”

“You promised!” Sherlock scolded. John lifted a hand in a pacifying gesture. “Sorry,” he said, grinning.

As their breathing calmed John took a step to Sherlock, who opened his thighs to let him stand between them and lifted his face. John’s eyes travelled over Sherlock’s features; he placed his hands on both sides of Sherlock’s face and buried his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. Seconds passed but John said nothing.

Sherlock kept his eyes locked with John’s and felt the swell of emotion in his chest: the unique, stupefying emotion which no other person, no other thing had ever evoked in him. John was speaking to him without a single word. Sherlock could hear his very voice, with every modulation, every pause, every small idiosyncrasy of speech. It told Sherlock what he already knew anyway: That John would learn to be happy anywhere, in any circumstances, as long as it meant he stayed with Sherlock.

No, more than that. As long as Sherlock was happy.

He swallowed and placed his hands over John’s.

“I want to play something,” he said.

John removed his hands reluctantly, but his face was curious. “Okay,” he said. “What is it?”

“It’s a piece by Paganini. Violin sonata Number Six,” Sherlock said, heading for the bedroom. “It’s actually for a violin and a guitar,” he continued, raising his voice as he took the instrument from its case, “but you’ll have to be content with the violin only.”

He was already halfway through the kitchen when he’d finished his sentence and just caught John’s soft “Always.”

Sherlock smiled at him, feeling the crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Sit,” he nodded towards the chair, closer to the fire. John did.

Sherlock stood by the other end of the mantelpiece and spent a few moments tuning the violin. He was surprised by the power and the immediacy with which the piece had arrived to him, insisting to be played. For John, but for Sherlock as well. Sherlock captured John’s eyes for a second, to find them clasped on him and gleaming with the light from the fire. He cleared his throat unnecessarily, arranged the violin against himself, closed his eyes, and started playing.

The music filled his entire soul, as it always did. Gentle and sweet, the tune rose and fell, a melancholic wave but with tranquillity in it, too. Colours swam behind Sherlock’s eyelids: green, light brown, the yellow of a field flower. Shapes followed the colours, from the flower itself, to the barest fold in its smallest petal. Then an entire field of yellow flowers, still and content under endless blue sky. The tune grew tender and so did Sherlock. Hills rolled unperturbed and soft, and water ran through the notes, added its murmur to their beautiful stretch. Then the green slopes, the trees and the clouds were framed by a window, looked through from inside a house…

And then there he was. John. Sunday morning. Hair soft and damp, eyes sleep-rested. John, sitting across from Sherlock, lifting his head to look out the window. His face the melody of all that lived, of God’s divine detail in all creation. In the blanks between the notes Sherlock could hear the lazy quiet of that Sunday morning, filled with comfort and tomorrow, and John, John, John, John…

Sherlock kept the bow pressed to the strings for a long moment after he’d finished. His eyes remained closed, too, moisture hanging on his bottom lashes like dew on the tips of thin grass. He rested his cheek on the wood for a last caress and finally looked.

A pair of big grey eyes, enthralled and knowing, met his.

“That was,” John began, then coughed lightly. “That was beautiful. Really lovely.”

Sherlock found his lips trembling as they stretched into a smile.

“I thought you’d like it,” he said, placing the violin carefully over his legs as he sat in the chair.

“It was—Like I said. Beautiful.” John looked at the fire. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Sherlock nodded and looked at the fire, too. They remained quiet for a while; Sherlock was eternally grateful for John’s grand gift of silence. For John.

He sniffed—rather indelicately to his own ears—and shot John a quick glance. John was watching the flames, face relaxed albeit pensive. It gave Sherlock an enormous sense of contentment to see John like that, but just this time he was quite looking forward to seeing John’s expression change into something livelier. Like excitement and hope.

“If you look through your notes on our cases,” Sherlock began musingly, “you’ll find that the English countryside has been the host of the most sinister secrets and crimes. Must be the rural element—no one to see you or hear you for miles.” John’s attention had zoomed right in on Sherlock now, his whole being twitching like the wet nose of a dog. Sherlock suppressed the urge to squash him in an embrace and instead finished matter-of-factly, “It would probably save us a lot of expense if we just moved there.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Allure of the English Countryside](https://archiveofourown.org/works/747566) by [themusecalliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themusecalliope/pseuds/themusecalliope)




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